The great bathroom purge of 2012
And so it came to pass that I dropped a contact lens in the bathroom. Ick. Said contact lens was instantly too fluffy to use (pink fluff – it’s our towels) and had to be thrown away. Ew, I thought. I’d better wash the floor.
And so it also came to pass that I learned one of life’s truer lessons: if the water in the mop bucket smells vaguely of ponds, it’s too long since you last washed the bathroom floor.
And this led me to thinking: if this is the state of MY bathroom, then… *cue ‘Twilight Zone’ music* … what on EARTH was the boys’ bathroom like?
Now don’t get me wrong, The Prof is quite handy with a sponge and a bottle of Cif. He’s a tidy chap (possibly the tidiest in our house) and generally I avoid their bathroom unless I’m changing towels or replenishing toiletries (one of those self-preservation things you learn early on with parenting teenage boys) or the toothpaste build-up on the sink needs to be chipped off. Generally, I rush in occasionally, hurl a bit of bleach around, then run for my life.
This time, though, I crawled in. Literally.
Oh. Dear God.
Now I apologise if you’re eating or whatever, but here, dearest reader, is a life lesson for mothers everywhere: never, NEVER check your childrens’ bathrooms on all fours.
Armed, then, with fresh bucket of water (the pond water went on the tomatoes), bleach, mop, spray, sponges and cloths (my Twitter followers suggested scuba mask and snorkel, but they’re in the loft) and a seriously large helping of housewifely guilt, I scrubbed that sucker until it shone. Nobody tells you about the sheer amount of ick that teenage boys produce. And hair. God how I HATE hair. It makes me want to barf if one of my own sticks to my face, so swimming around in the discarded hair of my offspring was something I never want to repeat. I may never eat again (ha, don’t be silly).
Seriously: there should be some sort of users’ manual for these things. I need a chocolate brownie. Stat.
‘I don’t know what happened… it just fell off!’ The Spontaneous Unexplained Incident.
‘Teenagers’. To quote Sebastian from The Little Mermaid: ‘they think they know everything. Give them an inch, they swim all over you’.
Mine are relatively tame… apart from the odd bout of scariness and the odd error of judgement (which would make your hair curl) they’re quite polite… do as they’re told and are good fun. One of the things I HATE, though, is the Spontaneous Unexplained Incident.
Let me explain. The Spontaneous Unexplained Incident, or SUI for short, generally occurs when there’s nobody else in the house, or after dark when everyone else is sleeping: the last KitKat vanishes, but curiously, nobody knows who ate it. There is water all over the kitchen floor, but nobody’s been in there. Handles fall off school bags… holes get ripped in blazers, but they always happen without anyone noticing and without anyone to blame.
Sometimes an SUI can even occur when EVERYONE is in, like last week when a courier called not once, but twice, while both teenagers were in the house, but seems to have knocked silently (and rung the bell silently) and put ‘while you were out’ cards through WITHOUT ANYONE HEARING. Amazing.
Our most recent SUI occurred while I was on the train home from Bloggers on Tour: West Yorkshire. As is customary with the Spontaneous Unexplained Incident, it started with The Sheepish Phone Call.
Death Wish Dude: ‘Mum, there’s been an accident’
*SILENT SCREAM*
Me: ‘Oh blimey! Is everyone alright?’
DWD: ‘Yes, but the bathroom is damaged’
*’SHIIIIIIIIT’*
Me: ‘What do you mean damaged?’
DWD: ‘All the tiles fell off the shower in your bathroom’
Me: ‘WHAAAT? What do you mean, they just ‘fell off’?!
DWD: ‘I dunno. It just happened!’
You see? A dozen tiles appeared to have just LEAPT off the wall onto the floor off the shower without any apparent help from anyone else. Spooky.
Later, careful questioning ascertained that ‘someone’ might have fallen against them (‘or something’), but even then ‘they must have been, like, really loose, ‘cos they JUST FELL OFF!’
So there you have it. If you have young children, be warned: they will grow into teenagers and, just as spring follows winter, so things in your house will start to spontaneously break, rip, fall apart or DISAPPEAR.
Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
[Insert Twilight Zone music here].
You know you love me, right?
As the parent of teenagers, there are certain opening sentences that strike fear into the bottom of my bottom. One of these, used by both de brevren on a regular basis is ‘Mum… you know you love me, right?’ to which I have to dutifully reply ‘yeeeees’? and wait, cringing slightly, for the bombshell that follows.
The answer can be a miriad of different horrors… a recent selection include:
‘Well, that’s good because I got an F in my Maths mock’
Shiiiiiit.
‘Well, that’s good because I think I lost that tenner you gave me. What? I put it in my sock for safe keeping…’
‘Well that’s good because I want you to take me to that big skate park in London on Saturday…’
Yup. That sort of thing.
Very occasionally they keep me on my toes with:
‘Good. ‘Cos I love you too’
And then I have to look all non-cringey and pretend I wasn’t expecting something really bad.
The murder of Billy Dove
On Saturday night, well, early Sunday morning, when many people were enjoying the aftermath of bonfire parties or, like me, were safely tucked up in bed after lovely evenings with their families, 21 year old Billy Dove was stabbed in Hemel Hempstead town centre. Obviously I can’t speculate as to the circumstances, but the end result was tragic: Billy died.
As the parent of teenagers, this terrifies me. My lovely nephews live in Hemel Hempstead. They mix in the same circles as Billy. They’re out in the town centre at night. You can’t help but think: what if it had been one of them?
A 17 year old boy has been charged with Billy’s murder and another, also 17, is still being interviewed. 17! What on earth goes through the head of a lad just 6 months older than my son to make him disregard his own life and that of another so much that he can carry a blade, and worse – use it?
Of course, ‘society’ will be blamed. Joblessness is at an all time high. Hemel Hempstead town centre is a shadow of its former self. Still, the majority of young people are decent, honest and law abiding. Nearly 10,000 people have paid tribute to Billy on the Facebook page created in his memory. Most of the commenters are young and local. They’re all horrified by what’s happened. So can we blame this on unemployment and/or social issues when the vast majority are horrified and appalled, and wouldn’t dream of committing such an act? I just don’t know. Should we just accept that every so often, a real scumbag is born (or made) and nothing any of us can do will stop that happening?
All I know is that it scares me. It makes me worry for the future of my teenage boys, and it makes me sad for the parents and friends of a young man who are mourning a future and a life cruelly wrenched from them.
Chocolate wookie cupcakes and the 11-teenager sleepover
So the Mad Prof decided that over half term he was going to have a Star Wars Marathon. This marathon, he informed me, would take the form of a…
‘…no-holds-barred 11 hour Star Wars fest where me, Jake, Mick, Sam, Harry, Max, Tom…’
Wait.
‘Six mates?’
‘Yup. Oh, and the two girls…’
‘Wait, EIGHT of you?’
‘Yup, as I was saying, we’re all going to watch all six Star Wars films back to b…
‘Eight mates? EIGHT BLOODY MATES?’
‘Yeah, that’s okay isn’t it? I thought you could do cupcakes and stuff, and we could order pizza, ooh and you could make those awesome cocktails…’
It’s the guilt, you see? Years in Ireland away from their mates and living 30 miles from school and not able to socialise because of living in such a rural location…
Reader, dearest, I gave in.
And so it was that our lounge came to be inhabited by seven enormous, gangly teenage boys, plus two token girls (I offered them the Prof’s bedroom, but they declined).
‘But where will you all sleep?’, I asked…
‘Muuuuum, we’re not going to sleep, it’s a Star Wars Marathon!’.
Oh, right. And that’s when the Death Wish Dude chipped in:
‘Erm… so if he’s having some mates round, can I have a mate round too?’
Why the hell not.
So I made Wookie cupcakes (badly) and we bought cider and ordered pizza (nearly £100 worth of pizza, incidentally), and I made cocktails and we sat upstairs, me worrying about spillages and breakages, and English Dad worrying about his precious telly and whether they’d keep him awake all night.
Turns out our fears were unfounded. Not many of them managed to watch every film, and yes, there was plenty of hilarity, a lot of thudding about, some pillow fights, clinking of bottles, choruses of ‘these are not the droids you are looking for‘, oh, and the window blind fell down, but there were no breakages, no spillages, no drunken antics and a perfect queue of ‘thank you very much for having me’ as they exited stage left, a little bleary eyed, the next morning.
‘That was awesome, Mum, we must do that again’.
Errrrm, yeah.
Proud parenting moments: the job interview
I know, I know… I hate those ‘my children are fabulous’ articles too. Let me rush to reassure you that my children aren’t fabulous. Well, I mean obviously, I think they’re fabulous because I’m their Mum and I kind of have to, but they argue and fart and shout and call each other a ‘douche’ and throw hangers at each other when trying on clothes in changing rooms and come in late and answer back and call me a ‘bellend’ and all sorts of general teenage pain-in-the-arseness, so it’s not going to one of those. Honest.
But…
Since being back in England, it’s been brilliant. They’ve been out with their Grandad for fabulous meals… out with their mates… down the gym… down the cricket club… it’s been never ending. And with that, of course, has been the flow of money. Which has also been never ending.
Lift to the big skatepark in the next town? Can’t you get the bus? Yes, but it’s £2.65 have you got any cash? I’m off to the gym, it’s cheaper if you get membership… Can we get a McDonald’s…?
And so it goes on. The Prof, then, decided it was time he was self-sufficient and decided to get a job for the summer. We toiled over a CV. Any idea how hard it is to pad out the CV of a 16 year old so it covers a whole page? Not bloody easy. We put down his predicted GCSE grades, and the subjects he’s chosen for A level, but then…
Luckily he had a really nice reference from the aviation company where he did his work experience last year. I stuck it on the bottom of the page.
Me: ‘and you need to put down some of your hobbies.. something that’s going to make it look like you don’t spend all day in your bedroom…’
Him: ‘Ooh, I’m wicked at Xbox…’
Me: ‘Oh god’.
Anyway, CV typed, he popped up to the ever-useful Disreputable Grandad to get some photocopies done, and then he was gone.
For hours.
And hours.
Eventually, he trudged up the path.
Turns out, he’d been along the high street and gone in EVERY shop and business and asked if they were hiring.
I was bloody impressed. Seriously. Even English Dad was in awe: ‘would you have walked the high street with a CV at 16? Nope, me neither’.
And he got an interview (at a well known high street coffee establishment, no less). As I watched him slope up the path, shaggy hair, jeans hanging round his arse, I had my doubts, but he’s obviously inherited the family ‘talking his way into anything’ gene, and was soon back with news of a start date.
As usual, he was unimpressed with our excitement… he’s already got it worked out. ’This time next year I’ll have enough for a car’.
Oh GOD!
Well done, Sam. I’m bloody proud of you. A+ for effort xx
Teenagers and exams: five bits of crap advice and one quite good one
Okay, first up with the crap advice then:
1. For some reason, during exams your average teenager will turn into an eating machine of epic proportions. Your healthy and carefully planned dinners will be scarfed down, oh yes, but it’s also worth visiting your local supermarket and bulk-buying white sliced loaves, revolting plastic cheese, those Pepperami things that look like they’re in a little condom and make your breath smell like dead people, Chilli Heatwave Doritos and 5-packs of Snickers and gallons of milk – all of which seem to be prepared into epic snackage at some time during the night (judging by the state of the kitchen in the morning – akin to that of an explosion) and consumed in near-darkness in the teenager’s lair while immersed in a book that appears to have had the edges chewed by some kind of rabid dog.
2. When you receive a phone call ten minutes before an exam from your teenager which, roughly translated, sounds like this: ‘OHMYGODMUM…CAN’TREMEMBERBLOODYANYTHING, I’M SO GOINGTOFAIL!!!’ , the correct response is a gentle and encouraging salve for the troubled hormonal teenaged soul: ‘you can do it! You’ve studied loads. I believe in you.. ‘ etc. Fight the urge to say ‘you get in there and get a bloody A or I’ll break your legs, y’hear me?’.
3. When in receipt of a text from the school that says: ‘X left an examination early today, contravening school rules and therefore not putting in the expected effort.’, it’s best not to:
a: imagine your offspring rushing from the exam room in tears after realising with horror that they can’t answer a single question, deciding that they’re done with education and want to join a commune in Israel and embrace their inner child.
b: secretly congratulate yourself for having produced a rebel who rides the highway of society without a helmet (or something), whilst simultaneously pressing the speed dial button in a vain attempt to ask him what the sodding hell happened.
c: imagine doing said teenager considerable physical damage with some kind of axe or mallet when they finally answer the 75th phone call and mutter ’oh the exam was a piece of cake. Nobody told us we couldn’t leave early. Soz, I left my phone in my locker’.
4. Similarly, when discussing said ‘piece of cake’ exam that mysteriously only took an hour to complete, it’s best to refrain from asking several times whether they went over their answers properly and whether they’re REALLY sure that they didn’t miss out a page. The resulting eye-rolling, tutting and swearing will just add to the overall stress levels.
5. When the teenager, in between mouthfuls of yet another dinner that would feed a third world nation for a week and gulping from a whole pint of milk, explains to you that he totally blanked and couldn’t remember the name of the author of the book he’d been studying for English over the last two years and that it didn’t really matter ‘cos I won’t lose too many marks I doubt’, it’s probably best to count slowly backwards from ten. Do not, I repeat, do not:
a. point out that the book has spent a large amount of time on his bedside table over the last two years
b. point out that he’s been resting his milk on it so much that it has rings forever embedded into the cover encircling the name of the author whose name escaped him in the exam
or
c: point out that the spine of said book, WITH the name of the author pointing towards him, must probably have been the last thing he saw most nights before drifting off to peaceful slumber. It’s done. Move on.
The good one:
If all else fails, throw cash at the situation.
Every child is different. For some, it’s praise, for others it’s freedom. For mine, it’s cold hard cash. After months of yelling ‘shouldn’t you be revising?’ at his headphone-encased head planted in front of the Xbox, the magic words that saw him drop the controller like hot sh*t and rush upstairs faster than you can say ‘Call of Duty’ to revise were, well, let’s just say financially motivated.
Don’t judge me.
Well not until you’re the parent of a teenager.
And hey, look on the bright side: just two more years until A levels!
*Le sigh*
Terrific gifts for teenagers. The Christmas Countdown Gift Guide
FOR THE BOYS
Spy Games, Europe’s leading espionage themed events company, has this AMAZING Spy Academy Gift Experience which is perfect for anyone who has ever dreamed of becoming the next James Bond (and let’s face it – who hasn’t?). This press release got de brevren hanging over my shoulder checking out the pics. Not only do you get to be trained to become an agent and perform a 3 hour spy operation, but you also get to receive training in essential spy equipment, like bugs and hidden cameras, and *cue the sound of teenagers fainting* you receive training on how to use a pistol and get to fire machine guns!! More info from: www.spy-games.com. Tel: +44 (0)845 1303 007
Gadget Glamour have got a great range of iPad and iPhone skins. They look amazing and make great stocking fillers. The skins cost from £10.00. Check out www.gadgetglamour.co.uk for more info.
Roadkill Toys are an absolutely awesome teenage twist on the soft toy and will certainly be taking pride of place in stockings at English Towers this year (shhh don’t tell). There are three toys; Twitch the Racoon, Grind the Rabbit and Splodge the Hedgehog, which literally look like they’ve been squished – plush guts and all! Each comes in its very own body bag and with an identity tag. £25.00. Check out www.roadkilltoys.com
Nike’s new CR Mercurial Vapor SuperFly II boot has been launched just in time for Christmas. Looking spectacular in a wrap-around updated version of the Nike Safari print first introduced on the Air Safari running shoe in 1987, and bearing the signature of none other than Christiano Ronaldo, each pair also comes with a special code to unlock training tips on the website. Stocked exclusively in Ireland at Lifestyle Sports. Wowzers.
My teens are (secretly) obsessed with grooming products and this Bulldog EcoSystem Moisturiser not only looks funky, but is fair trade too. To buy this and loads more fabulous eco/organic/natural/fairtrade type skin and hair care products, visit biggreensmile.com. It smells fabulous (and suitably manly) too.
Don’t forget that the amazing X Box Kinect is now out. Earlier this year we travelled to Gamescom 2010 in Cologne to try out the system and some of the games. Our favourites? Kinectimals (for the cute animals – and yes, even my boys liked it!), Kinect Sports and the fabulous Dance Central.
Check out MoreTvicar for amazing retro T shirts (oh and if you’ve got teeny tinies, check out the ‘love’ and ‘hate’ baby mittens as well. Beyond cute!
If, like me, you often have ‘extras’ staying overnight, often at short notice, this is a godsend. The Aerobed Active fully inflates in less than 60 seconds (it’s got a detachable pump that can also be used cordless or from a vehicle), can be used outside and is tested to 295kg which should withstand even the most ridiculous teenage wrestling shenanigans. Sadly the one we tried had an European two-pin plug on so we had to bring the car up to the house and inflate it via the cigarette lighter while several teenage boys held it up to the window (the bed, not the car). But hey, it worked.
Priced from £59.99 for a single. For more info and stockists see: aerobed.co.uk Ooh, and don’t forget the lovely John Lewis for all your stocking fillers too. Our favourites were the yoyos, slinkies and the good old potato gun.
FOR THE GIRLIES
Gorgeous undies and cute tops at mili b – this lovely website is run by a friend of my lubly mate Jane. Highly recommended (they do stuff for adults and kids too):
Fearne and Holly -The Best Friends’ Guide to Life
Green People have some fabulous gift boxes on their website, greenpeople.co.uk including this cute ‘Teen Angel‘ one (£22.99) containing a really nice quality Cleanse and Moisturise (50ml) with willow bark, green tea & mandarin, plus a volumising mascara. All the ingredients are organic, 100% vegetarian and 100% cruelty free and 10% of their net profit is donated to organic and environmental charities. What’s not to love? 
Celebrity Stylist Phil Smith’s gorgeous gift sets, available in Brunette and Blonde – just £5.00 each exclusively at Sainsbury’s make lovely little gifts: 
If you’re being nagged about a puppy and it’s just not the right time, maybe you could adopt one instead? Purina PetCare is supporting Canine Partners – a charity which specially trains dogs to assist people with disabilities. This is the gorgeous Ruben, who is already in training:
Adopt a dog for as little as £1.00 a week and you could make a fabulous difference to someone’s life too.
Tweezers with Attitude are cute little cartoon tweezers which make great stocking fillers – surprisingly good quality, my fave is the ‘Carrie’, but there’s lots to choose from – even a ‘Posh’ if you’re that way inclined! They’re available from Victoria Health and loads of good pharmacies and gift shops priced just £2.99 
FrontCover cosmetics make some really gorgeous gift sets. Their ‘FrontCover To Go’ kit, which contains 20 removeable eyeshadows, a limited edition compact so you can take four of the shades with you, plus shadowline (which cleverly turns shadow into eyeliner), applicators and expert instructions is absolutely great quality. Check out www.frontcovercosmetics.com – Frontcover is on sale at selected Boots stores and on Boots.com.
The Homemade Company have gorgeous sets. Check out the lovely ‘make your own lip balm’ kits which make lovely presents.
Previously Virgin VIE, VIE at Home still offers lovely high quality toiletries and cosmetics. Tthe Moisturising Body Butter Duo (£15.00), is beautifully packaged and would make a lovely gift. The Honey and Almond Body Butter is lovely and light and smells utterly delicious. Available online from www.vieathome.com
Friends of my buddy Kerry, the lovely Jo and Al make fantastic upcycled jewellery. Their Scrabble pendant line is made from actual board game pieces and this week they launched their limited edition range of amazing gold plated Scrabble pendants. These extra special Scrabble tiles are part of a super bling version of the ordinary Scrabble game. Each gold plated tile pendant comes with a gold plated chain and is priced at £45. The traditional Scrabble tile version with silver plated chains are still available at £8 and make perfect stocking fillers. You can find more information here: http://scrabblependants.blogspot.com/
And especially for you they’ve got one of the original Scrabble pendants to give away. Just email me via the contact form at the top of the page with SCRABBLE in the title and tell me the letter you would like, along with your name and address. UK only entries please. Competition closes one week today!
In which our hero nearly brains herself and receives no sympathy
So I’m bragging, yes, but my courgettes are huge (not a euphemism). They have taken over the entire greenhouse, with leaves so enormous you could seriously float down a river on one (yes, of course they would hold my weight – I am, after all, sylph-like in stature). The chickens have taken to making little impromptu nests under their leaves in the evening, they provide so much shade (and yes, I might have a small bindweed problem – I’m trying to ignore it):
Tuesday evening, then, out in my garden, pootling and pottering, tying stakes and watering, I was being careful to avoid treading on the giant leaves (should I later wish to do a little languid river floating), and didn’t notice the edge of the greenhouse window.
Next thing I know there was an enormous bang, several bursts of silvery stars and a fading from green to black. I staggered backwards, nearly crushing my precious courgette/triffids, and touched my hand gingerly to my forehead.
Blood.
Now as a complete and committed hysteric, my first move was obviously to utter a bloody curdling shriek and burst into tears. The important stuff out the way, I then rushed to the house, stemming the blood with my palm and envisaging a huge, open wound, stitches, hospitals and maybe even plastic surgery.
Staggering into the lounge, then, where my three men, plus Irish house guest were watching TV, I relayed my terrible story and showed them the head wound of epic proportions.
Reader, there was sniggering.
Yes, one of the sniggerers did go and get me a piece of wet toilet roll to dab at my bloody forehead, but seriously. There was barely-stifled tittering, which soon turned into not-so-stifled belly laughs. I was not a little confused and not a happy bunny.
Why? Why would they laugh when I was so obviously injured? I could have DIED.
#1, smothering his guffaws, gently led me to the bathroom and pointed me in the direction of the mirror, where it turned out that, rather than the enormous, gaping forehead I was expecting, there was actually a small and perfectly formed red dot in the middle of my forehead.
‘Mum’, he said, before they all collapsed with laughter again, ‘you look like a Hindu’.
Teenagers should come with a warning label: do not expect sympathy of ANY kind.
Tsk.
The Fear
I’ve made no secret of the fact that I’m never going to be a candidate for Parent of the Year. I swear too much, I’m too messy (thereby inviting sarcastic responses to ‘tidy your room’), I do not adhere to proper mealtimes and the ironing pile often reaches the (cobwebby) ceiling. I always thought I did okay, though, in a kind of ‘out there’ parenting way.
But moving back here to surburbia, after four years in rural Ireland? It’s scary. I’m out of my depth – out of my parenting league.
In Cavan, although there was the odd ‘tearaway’, kids were on the whole terrified of their mams. They behaved. There was discipline and order. I liked it. An Irish Mammy takes no shit. Her kids do their homework, show respect, and get to bed early on a school night. Okay so health and safety is a little wobbly, but whether or not the kids wear crash helmets, they are out with their mates on their bikes, playing footie and GAA and getting home before it gets dark OR ELSE. In Ireland, exams are everything. School is important, and everyone knows where they stand.
Here, though? Parenting is so much more liberal. Oh I’m not talking those irritating ‘luvvie mummies’ at the playground who go ‘oh my little poppet is just expressing herself’ as the devil-child pulls your kid’s pigtails, I’m talking SCARY liberal.
Take, for example, a recent party. It’s the talk of the school. Some parents allowed their 15 year old daughter to have a house party. I don’t know them, so I don’t know where they were, but seeing as their little petal posted all the photos on Facebook, I’m pretty sure she had their blessing. It was a beautiful house, too.
There was drinking. I’m talking serious drinking. There was smoking. And then (a natural progression), there was vomiting. There were all sorts of other shenanigans as well. One child (and yes, he’s a child – he’s 15 years old) got so drunk, he passed out and his ‘friends’ shaved his eyebrows and half his head (only stopping because the electric shaver ran out of power).
Drive around this little patch of suburbia on any given Friday or Saturday night and it’s the same old story: lads (with their jeans around their arses in that strange teenage manner) clustered around someone’s house holding beers; girls, barely 15, clutching glasses of wine, eyes unfocused, plastered in make-up, cleavages hoiked, knickers barely covered in tiny skirts…
Reckon it’s innocent fun? Am I being a fuddy duddy? Want me to get a life? Tell that to the parents of Paddy Higgins, who fell to his death after a drinking binge with his mates, or the mum and dad of the 16 year old girl who collapsed and died at a house party in nearby Cookham back in October after drinking nearly five times the legal limit.
So where do I stand on all this? Well firstly I should say that I was the teenager from hell. I’ve been there, done that and worn the t-shirt. So therefore, nothing gets past me. This stuff, though? It makes my teenage years look like an episode of Milly Molly Mandy.
I think I’m just about as far removed from most of these other parents as possible. House parties are out (either here or anywhere else – the only vomiting ever done in this house will be if someone’s ill, thank you very much) and so is going out boozing. I want my sons to have a sensible attitude to drink, so their first beers will be with us, as a family during dinner or maybe the odd one on holiday. There will be no alcohol abuse, no vomiting, no smoking and certainly nothing else.
Our style of parenting, believe it or not, makes kids like my son the odd one out, but I don’t care. I might not be parent of the year, but my son knows damned well what our values are and will respect our boundaries or face the consequences.
I think in those four years, I’ve caught a little bit of Irish Mammy. And do you know what? I’m dead proud. And I’d go back tomorrow.
